


Reinforcement

by unsettled



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 22:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9260639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: From a tumblr prompt courtesy of seasons_gredence:but what does Graves do with the scars that aren't on Credence's hands?





	

He always moves oddly, head down, shoulders hunched, trying to hide from the world. Always keeps his glance averted, tries to keep a little distance between them, yet another showcase of the fear that lives in him, shivering its way out in every action Credence takes. 

Graves never allows it, is always quick to bring him in closer, closer, a hand wrapped around his neck, and arm around his shoulders, confining. It's a tool to use, like any other, the way Credence shivers and leans into him and follows his touch, hungry for any small comfort. It's such a simple, easy thing.

He always moves oddly, and he always leans in, but this time, he moves stiffly as well, and when Graves places his hand on the small of his back, Credence winces, his breath catching for an instant. 

He doesn't look up. 

Graves ignores it. “What news,” he asks, “have you found them?”

There is nothing but silence for a long, long moment. “I'm sorry,” Credence whispers. “No one has been acting different, showing any signs. I don't think,” he hesitates, dips his head further. “I don't think they're here.”

They're here. Graves has seen it; the woman, the roiling black of the obscurus, and Credence. Credence is the key. He knows it. 

He knows it, and so he digs up the dregs of his patience. Berating Credence, letting his disappointment show – Credence is too fragile for that. It will gain him nothing, as much as he wishes to unleash his ire. “Stay strong,” he tells him, instead. “They will come, and you will find them. I have faith in you, Credence,” he says, as Credence glances up at him, shyly. He smiles at him, and runs his hand up Credence's back, to his shoulder, ready to bring him in closer.

He's not prepared for the choked sound Credence makes, how he jerks away from Grave's hand, involuntary, defensive. “What-” he starts, startled, and Credence curls into himself.

“Sorry,” he mutters, “sorry, sorry, sorry,” stepping away, ready to bolt.

Graves wraps his hand around Credence's wrist, halting him. “What is it?” he asks, and when there is only silence; “What has she done to you this time?”

Credence doesn't reply, doesn't look at him, doesn't relax even a fraction. It's tempting – so tempting – to drop it, to let go and watch Credence scurry off, back to the little hellhole he lives in. But he needs Credence. The visions are clear on that much. He needs him. And he needs him whole, needs him useful, needs him devoted. 

There has been enough vinegar in Credence's life. More of the same will not buy his loyalty.

“How long do you have before she becomes suspicious?” he asks, turning Credence's hand over. His palm is unmarked. 

“A few hours, at most,” Credence replies, soft, his fingers curling in, glancing sidelong at Graves. 

“Time enough,” Graves tells him, and tugs him along, out of their alley. There's a hotel a block down that will serve well enough. No questions will be asked, no one will remember them, and a little magic will go unremarked. Credence trails along behind him, silent, hesitant. 

Hesitant, but obedient, and he follows Graves up the narrow stairs, into the faded, shadowy little room, barely even blinking when Graves locks the door behind them, still even when Graves stands before him, too close, and reaches for his tie. He startles then, nervous, his head jerking up, hands half rising as he leans back, the barest bit. 

Graves keeps his hands on the narrow black fabric. “She beat you,” he says, as Credence tries to flinch away further. “She hurt you,” he says, with more force, fingers tightening. “I can do something about that, at least. Have I not helped you before?” 

Credence's hands curl into fists, uncurl. “Yes,” he whispers. 

It's not enough. Graves lets go, withdraws. “Do you not trust me?” he asks, his tone carefully measured, equally wounded and disappointed.

“Yes,” Credence says, “yes!” his hands coming up to Graves', pulling them back to his tie, eyes wide and scared. Graves lets his hands wander upwards, cradling the boy's face. He smiles at him.

“You know I would never hurt you,” he says, and the fault lies not in Credence that he does not hear the lie. 

He strips Credence's top half, layer by layer, each item's removal making Credence swallow, and shudder, and stifle small noises of pain, until he is bare from the waist up. He is pale, and thin, ribs easily visible, his belly concave, and he shivers, chilled and nervous. 

There were faint flecks of blood on the back of his shirt. 

“Turn around,” Graves says, and then finds he has nothing to say as Credence turns, reveals the reddened lash marks, thin slices that have opened, crusted with dried blood and oozing slightly, heavy bruising at the end of each line, like – like a buckle. 

This is more than he imagined. 

He puts his hand to Credence's shoulder, hovering a bare breath above the skin. “How often does she do this?” he asks, disturbed by his own reaction. Credence is the key, but still, nothing more than a tool. 

There are pale white lines bisecting the fresh marks, crisscrossing nearly every inch of Credence's back.

“I try to be good,” Credence says, which is enough of answer, really. 

He turns him towards the bed. “Lie down,” he says, “on your front. This may make you dizzy, or feel weak. I don't want you to fall.” 

Credence settles himself, face buried in the flat excuse for a pillow, arms tucked in tightly against his sides. Graves sits next to him, brushing against him, and slides out his wand. The harsh marks disappear as he works his way down. “You're not bad,” he murmurs as he works. “You don't have to try to be good, Credence. You already are.” Credence shudders beneath his wand. 

“You don't know that,” he whispers, barely audible through the pillow.

The marks continue onward beneath his trousers, and Graves hesitates. Halts, and reaches forward, tilts Credence's head to the side. “You've done nothing to deserve this,” he tells him, and for an instant, Credence's eyes meet his, shocked and wanting. 

He tugs lightly at Credence's waistband, uncertain how much further down the beating goes, and Credence sucks in a sharp, short breath before his hands move downward, underneath his body, undoing the fastening of his trousers. He wriggles, shoving trousers and drawers down, turning his face back to bury in the pillow. 

But not before Graves sees the pale flush across his cheek. 

Everything is useful, somehow. 

He says nothing more as he continues his work, finding the marks continuing even further, red welts mingling with deep, purpled black bruises spread across Credence's rear, and as he pulls down Credence's clothing further, thick, split welts all along the back of his thighs. 

By the time he finishes, Credence is trembling, fine shivers that resonate through Graves. He smooths his hand up and down the line of Credence's back, an attempt at soothing him. His skin is chilled, goose pimpled; Graves whispers a warming spell and watches – feels – as breath by breath, Credence slowly unwinds, the tension leaving his body until he is more relaxed than Graves has ever seen him. 

He runs his hand up the back of Credence's neck, curls it in the fine, dark hair there, and Credence turns his head, the flush faded, his eyes nearly closed and his lips slightly parted. Graves has no doubt this is the most sensual pleasure he's ever felt, small enough as it is.

Small enough as it is, it's still heady to watch someone unspool beneath his touch. 

He reaches down and slides off Credence's shoes, and socks, both well worn and near bare in spots. Credence stirs, tenses faintly; “Hush,” Graves says, “it's alright,” and Credence settles, swallowing hard once, that flush rising, so pale, in his cheeks again. He wraps his hands around Credence's feet, still chilled, and presses his thumbs into the arches, watches toes curl and Credence's whole body shift for a moment. 

Like this, spread out and languid, Graves finds that there is something very appealing about Credence. 

He indulges himself for a bit, stroking the pale, marked skin of Credence's back, watching him as his breath slowly, slowly shortens, as the palest hint of a blush rises in his skin, further than his cheeks, as he begins to shift, the barest bits of movement, mindlessly, his fingers curled into the cheap, thin sheets. Graves stops, for a moment, lets his hand just rest on the small of Credence's back, and watches him. 

Credence turns his head, further, chin tucked down, his expression more than a little dazed. “Please,” he breathes. 

Graves waits, a moment, two. “Please what?” he asks, just as quietly, and Credence – Credence freezes, his breath caught, tense. 

“What you want?” Graves says, pressing his palm down, curious, and Credence turns his head away, hidden in the pillow, and shakes it, a silent denial. He leans down, presses his lips to the bared skin of Credence's nape, tempting, and Credence gasps, loudly, shaken. He asks again, lips brushing skin. “What do you want, Credence?”

Credence jerks away at that, pushes himself as far away as he can get on the narrow little bed, and curls up tightly, face hidden, a trembling ball of fear. “Nothing,” he says, shakily, “I don't want anything, it's wrong, it's bad, it's, it's evil, nothing.”

He is about to lose him, Graves thinks, about to watch that future in his visions dissolve, and he will not let that happen. 

“Oh, Credence,” he says, “no, no.” Slides back further from his perch on the edge of the bed, until he is close to Credence again. “It's not evil, Credence, it's not bad.” He curls his hands around Credence's wrists and pulls him in, and he comes, stiff and shaking, but still, he comes, lets himself be brought in, arranged straddling Grave's lap, head on his shoulder and hands pressed between their chests. “ _You're_ not bad,” Graves tells him, emphatically, and Credence's hands uncurl from their fists and latch on to him, clinging to the edges of his jacket. He brings his hands up, one cradling the back of Credence's head, buried in that fine, dark hair, forehead pressed to Graves neck, the other curled around his waist, holding him close. 

“The things you want, Credence,” he says, turning his head so his words are breathed into Credence's ear, soft, just for him, “they are not wrong or bad or evil, no more than you are. It's like – like magic. Of course they say it is evil, those who don't have it. They say it's wrong, a perversion, but it's not, you've seen that it's not. Haven't you?” Credence nods, the slightest of movements, against his neck. “Yes,” Graves continues. “It's beautiful. Magic is beautiful, a wonderful thing, a thing that should be desired.” 

He presses his lips to Credence's temple, and Credence shivers in his arms. He shifts him back, slightly, brings up both hands to frame his face. “Look at me,” he commands, and Credence raises his gaze, slowly, slowly, eyes wide and wet. 

“You've been denied, Credence,” he says, low, setting the snare. “You've been denied what you want, what you need, what is rightfully yours. You were born to magic, born to want what you desire, and they have striped that birthright from you.” Credence sways closer, caught, hungry for this. “What you desire is right, is just. What you want is what you should be, proper, right, and you shouldn't have to hide it.” 

Graves leans in, till his vision is filled with nothing but the deep brown of Credence's eyes. “I promise you, Credence,” words breathed almost against Credence's lips “you shall have what is rightfully yours.” 

He presses his lips to Credence's, and Credence shudders, hands tightening, and kisses back, untutored and desperate, but still, good. 

Graves slows him, turning his kisses deeper, smoother, until Credence is giving as good as he gets, hungry, wanting, wanting, _wanting_ , so desperately. He slides a hand down, following the line of Credence's hips, down until his fingers are brushing through dark, curled hair, just barely touching Credence's cock. Credence breaks away from his mouth, startled, and bites his lip. Graves smiles at him. “You're doing so well,” he says, in the same moment as he wraps his hand around Credence's cock, and Credence makes a choked, gasping sound, his back arching as he thrusts shallowly against Graves' hand, head falling back until is neck is stretched out before Graves, tempting. He leans in and kisses the flushed skin, nips it lightly, and Credence cries out, one hand flying up to grasp at Graves' hair. “Good,” he murmurs against Credence's neck, and Credence shudders. 

He curls his hand more firmly around Credence's cock, begins to wind him up, long, languid strokes, refusing to hurry even when Credence begins to shift, to move against him. He pulls away from Credence's neck and glances up at him; there's a faint furrow in his brow, an edge of nerves. 

“Shhh,” he says, loosens his grasp just enough for Credence to slide through his hand, already slick. “That's it, just like that,” and Credence curls inward, thrusts hard, faster. Graves slides a hand up his neck, his cheek, brings him in enough to resume kissing, Credence panting against him, his breath coming shorter and shorter as he comes closer to the edge, closer, closer. 

Graves tightens his hand, suddenly, Credence's last stroke dragging against his palm, and Credence gasps, stills for an instant, eyes wide and staring into Graves', shocked and dark, and then he's shaking, clinging desperately as he rocks though his orgasm, falling forward against Graves bonelessly, his breath hot and damp as he buries his face in Graves' shoulder. 

“Good,” Graves whispers, lips brushing the edge of Credence's ear. “Very good, Credence.”

Credence whimpers. 

They sit for a few moments, Graves keeping his grasp snug, Credence still shivering through the last aftershocks, silent. 

“Sir,” Credence says, eventually, a soft stirring of sound. Uncurls his hand from its death grip on Grave's jacket and trails his fingers down, until they are pressing lightly against the snug fabric over Grave's cock, and Graves hisses out a breath – from the touch, or surprise, he couldn't say. “What about you, sir?” Credence says, shy, face still tucked against Grave's shoulder, but his hand is making quick work of the fastenings. 

Graves starts, despite himself, when Credence finally touches him, skin to skin, and Credence jerks back, head coming up, as though he is worried. “No,” Graves says, quickly, catching Credence's wrist and bringing his hand back down. “That's good, that's … that's very good,” and sighs when Credence releases his cock fully, ducking his head to glance down as he trails his fingers along it, lightly, hesitant. 

“Wait,” Graves says, and shifts, twists and lays back, bring Credence with him, until he's flat on his back, Credence above him, straddling his thigh, Grave's cock snug between them. “Like this,” and he sets his hands to Credence's hips, shifts them ever so slightly as he moves himself, a slow, slow friction between them. Credence tries to raise himself up, on his elbows, but Graves shakes his head. Laughs, and pulls Credence closer, closer. “You don't weigh a thing,” he says, and then, as Credence experiments a little, twists and wriggles a little, “yes, like that, just like that.” 

Credence nuzzles in, lips against the skin just above Graves' collar, tiny little brushes of skin and lips and tongue. He tilts his head, offers better access, and murmurs approvingly when Credence obeys and takes advantage of it. 

They slide against each other, slow, warm, as though there is all the time in the world to simply enjoy this. Graves lets himself go, lets himself just enjoy this for the moment, no further thought beyond the moment, his hands stroking along Credence's back, his sides, thumb brushing over a nipple and sending Credence arching into him, groaning at his neck. 

But Credence is young, yet, and soon enough, his cock has caught up, hard again, and Credence's thrusts grow faster, his breathing harsher. Graves can feel the hard heat of him, brushing against his cock, and he thrusts back, until the languor is gone, both of them hungry for the end, rutting against each other, unable to stop. 

He's close, close, so close, and Credence shudders against him, sets his sharp little teeth to Grave's next and nips, no, a proper bite, bright and painful and Graves groans, fingers grasping tightly enough to bruise at Credence's hips, suddenly sliding in the thick, warm slick of Credence's come, and he is done for, arching in Credence and coming, shaking as Credence clings back. 

Credence lays on him, quietly, unmoving, until their breathing settled, evens out. Then he raises himself up, slowly, carefully, and slides off, curling on his side next to Graves. He ducks his head, looks at Graves nervously. “I've made a mess of you,” he says, quietly, “I'm sorry.”

That, Graves will not have. He reaches over, tilts Credence's face up until he cannot glance elsewhere. “You did exactly as I wished you to,” he tells him. “You were perfect,” and Credence blushes, a bright, flaming red, entirely unlike the pale flush of earlier, his eyes wide and shocked, and Graves knows, knows that now he has him, completely and utterly, bound tighter than any pledge could bring him.


End file.
